Fourteen Words
by brokenclaw
Summary: They were fourteen words. And they had haunted him every day.


(**Author's Note:** I really don't know where this one-shot came from. It just kind of…came out. I have been afflicted with a horrible case of writer's block, so this was kind of an effort to get some ideas going. Please review and let me know what you think, whether it be good or bad! The ending takes place during Vital Signs)

One day, he'd be worth it. Those were the words he repeated to himself every night, pulling the covers over his head and trying to block out all of the pain, the memories.

Every goddamn night.

It never worked.

The sadness came, and the tears flowed, but there was nothing he could do.

The real pain came from the inside.

Over time, he had come up with a little mantra that he constantly chanted to himself

_You're not needed._

_You're not wanted._

_Nobody loves you._

_You don't deserve to live._

The 14 words were a constant reminder.

The 14 words never let him forget.

He would never forget the sounds of shattering glass piercing the murky silence of the night.

He would never forget the dull thud from the strike of a heavy wooden bat.

He would never forget the frightened shrieks. They were from his mother.

And he would never forget the way her cries were abruptly cut off by the scream of a bullet. While he cowered. Halfway up the staircase. Out of sight.

While his father contemptuously spat on the body of the now still woman, then grabbed the keys. And left.

There was the jingle of metal, the creaking of a door. There was the sound of wind whistling in, taking a sorrowful glance at what lay inside, and whistling back out.

He was 14.

He could have done _something_ to save her.

But, he didn't.

And that was the only thing that counted now.

The next morning brought his father, the drunken breeze of alcohol, and the start of hell.

The yells.

The taunts.

The mocking insults.

And with the verbal, came the physical. The punches rained down, a raging thunderstorm of kicks, of humiliation, and pain.

After a while, he stopped feeling the pain.

He stopped feeling anything.

All he knew was that he had nothing left, no one left.

And there was no one he could ever trust again.

But every night, he would half stagger-half crawl to the relative safety of his little bedroom, and pull those covers around him. And after the tears came and went, he would pray. By now, he wasn't even sure if there was a God, but he prayed to Him, praying that He would help rescue him from his torment.

Then came the day he turned 18. He used his carefully saved finances to move out, sneaking away in the dead of night to a shabby apartment far, far, away.

But even if he could escape his father, he couldn't escape the scenes that flashed in front of his eyes every night, no matter how tightly he shut them.

And the 14 words always rung in his head.

_You're not needed._

_You're not wanted._

_No one loves you._

_You don't deserve to live._

Yet something kept him from taking his life, from ending it then and there. It was a faint spark of defiance towards his father.

_I'm still here. I'm still alive._

Because if he died, his father would be happy.

oO00Oo

Years passed.

He was older now.

He had found love, and he thought that it would be lasting.

But then it was taken away.

She had broken his heart.

And he knew he was right, right to never trust anyone.

Ever.

Again.

Because he had trusted his father at one point. When he taught him how to ride a bike. When they played catch in the backyard.

But that was all gone now.

He had trusted her, too.

That was gone as well.

oO00Oo

He had never thought he would be able to trust again, ever.

Yet somehow, he had realized something that day, although he was slightly out of it, slumped on the carpeted floor of the clinic.

It was something that he had been afraid to admit, afraid to believe.

That he could trust someone again.

"You're the only one."

"The only what?"

"The only person that I can trust."

14 words.

These ones were different. They were…hopeful.

And he knew, with a firm certainty, that they were true.

Because with the hand that was heavy on his shoulder, came heavy with an unspoken promise.

_We're friends now._

_We have trust._

(**Another quick note:** I'm sure I'm not the only one, but Neal looked SO CUTE eight years ago! LOVE his hair like that :D )


End file.
